


it'll all work out

by beanarie



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not about when he breaks, it's about when <i>she</i> does.</p>
<p>For the prompt "Sherlock finally falls apart post “M” about losing Irene. Watson stumbles upon the aftermath."</p>
            </blockquote>





	it'll all work out

**Author's Note:**

> Title is by Tom Petty. Thanks to dwcourtesan @ tumblr for the prompt.

Sherlock throws the visitor's chair to the floor, and that's one of those things people on thin ice just can't do. Gregson has continued asking for Sherlock's assistance, even after the FBI swooped in to claim M, Moran--serial/contract killer means federal jurisdiction on more than one level--and refused Sherlock access to him, reducing Sherlock to a lot of quiet, clipped, polysyllabic words intended to shred pieces from whomever he aimed them at. Gregson's trust in Sherlock is already frayed to almost nothing; it's hard for a police captain to reconcile working with a man who kidnapped and tortured a suspect. He's only continuing their arrangement out of some mixture of dogged hope or loyalty. Possibly affection, Joan doesn't know. But when Sherlock flings the chair, snarling, "If you would just _listen_." like an eight year old being denied the attention of his parents, it causes a tear. Joan doesn't yet have the thread to sew it together, so they can all feel the ends hanging open, gaping, undeniable.

Sherlock looks at Gregson and Joan. Joan's skin burns from the eyes of half the cops in Midtown. Gregson says, "What the hell are you-" Before he can finish, Sherlock stalks out of the building.

While Joan rights the chair, her hands are sort of vibrating. She's breathing a bit louder than normal. She can't stop reminding herself that this isn't her fault.

Gregson touches her shoulder, his lips curled downward in a sympathetic frown. "He had a counselor at that place, Hemdale?"

Joan shakes her head. "They never developed a rapport. You know how he is."

"Yeah. Don't I just." Gregson's sigh speaks volumes about powerlessness. Joan has heard it from dozens of people before. She's let it out herself a few times. "You'll let me know if there's something I can do, right?"

She nods, tries to smile. "Of course."

~

Sherlock builds up his new display. In the absence of Moran, his only direct source of information, however dubious it may have been, he throws himself into his research, beginning with his old case files for M. 

Joan glances from his phone, ever silent, to his metastasizing bulletin board from hell. "Aren't you... bored?" she ventures.

"Do I look like a man in want of diversion?" he shoots back. He doesn't bother turning from the computer where he's attempting to track the numbers from Moran's cell phone records. He hasn't seen the inside of his bedroom in days. 

"You know this isn't healthy," she says on a Tuesday.

"You have to let these feelings out," she says on a Friday.

He rolls his eyes or scoffs. He glares outright or changes the subject. He ignores her and continues whatever he was doing.

Some mornings she'll come downstairs and the stereo will be playing Nina Simone, Etta James, Sarah Vaughn. He always turns the music off or changes the station when he realizes she's entered the room. 

Joan does a little research of her own. Irene was a singer. At the time of her death, she had a regular gig at a club on the West End.

~

Joan leaves, sometimes, because she has to. Never long enough to require him to get in contact. She's honestly a little surprised when he calls. "Watson?" he says. "Watson, I- I-"

"You sound weird. Are you okay?"

"If- If- If- If _convenient_ -"

"Are you at home," she demands. " _Sherlock_." 

The call ends. 

Ten seconds later, Joan is redialing, running, trying to flag down a cab. The text alert dings on her phone.

_y_

~

There's something off, she can tell the second she gets in the house. But it takes her a few seconds to put her finger on it.

_I'd forgotten what it smelt like,_ he'd said. And at that moment, the sense memory had locked in her mind. Heroin cooking. 

She shouts his name once, and she passes some crumpled up plastic in the hall. The wrapper for a new syringe, she realizes, and she calls out again.

"I haven't left," she hears. The three hollow words do very little to stem her rising anxiety.

She sits on a milk crate directly in front of where he sits hunched over in his chair. On the floor a few inches from her foot is a tiny (empty) ziplock baggie. She can't see his eyes because he's doubled over. She can't see his arms because he's huddled under a blanket. It's freezing in there. He'd opened all the windows, an act that distantly strikes her as absurd. 

"How much did you take?" she asks, sounding much calmer than she feels. 

"Nothing," he says hoarsely. "Down the drain. You'll see, I washed it away."

Sure enough, the evidence is in the sink. A spoon carelessly tossed under the faucet. A slight brown tinge to the drain cover. She rinses off the remains and goes back to her crate. "You got rid of all of it?"

"Admittedly I would not pass a spit test," he says. One hand emerges from the blanket. "A bit splashed on my fingers and- and I may have licked it off." He wiggles his fingers, making an attempt to laugh that only emphasizes the cracks in his composure. 

He ducks his head, breathing out unsteadily. 

She waits for him to stand and shuffle her off. That's how they operate. When things get heavy, either he disengages, or she does.

He begins to shiver, and she puts her arms around him. 

"Can we talk about this?" she whispers. "Please?"


End file.
